


He Gets that From Me

by oneoneandone



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:08:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29685834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneoneandone/pseuds/oneoneandone
Summary: Not your usual soccer camp.For winner in Match #2 of SB "Predict the Score" game.
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 6
Kudos: 160





	He Gets that From Me

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt**   
>  _"some cute preath with a baby. maybe first camp back for both of them"_
> 
> I took some liberties.

Tobin’s ready. She’s never been more ready, really.

Her bag is packed, all the essentials tucked inside of it, and far more organized than anyone would probably give her credit for, honestly. A couple changes of clothes, sunscreen, shades to block the strikingly bright sun, a hat in case the sunglasses aren’t enough, everything she’ll need to clean up—oh, and plenty of snacks.

And then, then there’s the most important piece of all ...

“Hey, there, little man,” Tobin leans down into the small crib, smiling at the little boy there looking up at her with wide brown eyes. She traces his little waving arms, stroking the tip of her finger over one tiny palm, and then another, laughing as the baby grasped it tightly. “Ohh,” Tobin lifted him carefully into her arms, “you flexing all those muscles? You getting ready to show off for all those ladies today?”

She’s not new at this any longer, and so before they go anywhere, Tobin checks her son’s diaper, changing him before doing the navy blue sleeper with the green dinosaurs back up again. “There we go, Noah,” she tickles his feet through the fleecy fabric, grinning proudly as he kicks against her palm, “gotta practice those moves, little baller boy.”

Tobin lifts Noah again, holding him close to her chest. She presses a soft kiss to his head, breathing in the scent of him, still so in awe of him. Of what she made. “You ready to go see mama?” Tobin asks the boy who looks up at her—already he knows her voice, when she’s talking to him—with those dark owl eyes. “Go see mama and JoJo?”

And Christen says he’s just responding to the tone of her voice, that when she asks, when he kicks excitedly in answer to her question, but Tobin disagrees. He understands her, her smart little boy.

They walk, Noah safe in the stroller, warm blankets tucked around him to keep him warm, and one of his favorite little stuffed toys—a clownfish from Rapinoe, second only to the plush basketball his beloved Aunt Sue had brought him. Tobin’s got the diaper bag, stocked to the gills with anything they could possibly need, slung across her chest, and a SnapBack and pair of RayBans to keep the sun out of her eyes as they make the short trek to the park just two blocks down from their walk-up.

She hears them almost a full block away, the excited shouts, every now and then an adult’s voice trying to impose some control on the situation. And when they finally get to Field B, where the first day of toddler soccer mini-camp is taking place, Tobin can barely keep her laughter contained. Thirty three- to five-year-olds run around in identical t-shirts and too-big shin guards, tripping over themselves with almost every move they make. Someone has arranged a set of cones, and is attempting to demonstrate how to kick the ball around them, but from what she can see, there’s only one or two kids actually listening. The rest, including her three-year-old daughter, are just chasing each other around, tugging at tiny pinnies, pulling each other down into laughing, squirming heaps of happy, excited children.

And then there’s Christen—poor, sweet Christen—standing in the middle of it all. Looking absolutely adorable and completely bewildered. Tobin has to laugh, seeing Chris there with her visor and her whistle and her clipboard, looking like she had no idea how she ended up in this situation. She parks the stroller near a small bench, carefully arranging Noah in the newborn carrier against her chest. He usually prefers the wrap that Christen likes to wear him in, but Tobin likes the more backpack-feel of this one, and Noah has seemed more or less indifferent the last few times she’d put him in it, snuggling easily into her chest. Today, too, he settles into it quickly, and she makes her way barefoot across the lush green grass—sandals abandoned next to the stroller—to sneak up on her wife.

“Hey, beautiful,” she comes up behind Christen and whispers in her ear, grinning as her wife jumps a little. "How's the first day going so far?"

Chris turns and is about to stick out her tongue, but catches herself, and rolls her eyes instead. "Did you come here to gloat?" she asks, but the words come out on a laugh as she brings a hand up to stroke softly over Noah's soft curls.

"Maybe a little," Tobin smirks. "How quickly did you realize that drills and diagramed plays weren't going to cut it for kiddie soccer camp?" And she is gloating a little, because she had told Christen that there was no need to read up on coaching tactics or advanced skills formation. Not for a week-long toddler camp that acted more as a four-hour daycare than a sports camp. But Christen had insisted, and Tobin had just watched as her wife wrote up detailed plans for each day of the week, beginning with ball skills and ending, on Friday, with some position training.

Christen whimpers a little, pressing her head against Tobin's shoulder. "Less than ten minutes," she admits. "I dumped the balls out for the first drill and they started throwing them at each other," Chris pokes her wife in the ribs when she laughs, "and it just kind of went downhill from there." But Tobin kisses her brow and wraps the arm that's not supporting Noah's weight against her chest—she _knows_ the carrier is safe, but she just _feels_ better if she's got a hand under him—just standing there for a moment with her wife as they take in the horde of children chasing each other around the little field Christen has laid out for their practice.

"Honestly," Tobin smiles, "it's going better than I thought it would." And Christen jabs her again, just enough for the older woman to swallow back a chuckle. "Okay, okay," she kissed her wife's cheek, "tell you what. You want to take the little man for a bit? Coach Toto will go out there and show them what's what."

And Chris considers the offer, because she knows Tobin is still healing, still recovering from the birth of their boy. "You sure you're up for it?" she asks softly, nuzzling into her a little. "Don't say you are if you're really not, okay?" But her wife just smiles at her.

"It's just a little juggling," she promises, "nothing fancy. I'll show them an easy trick or two, and have them practice kicking the ball to each other."

So Christen holds as still as she can while Tobin carefully snaps the carrier into place over her shoulders and around her waist, pressing a kiss to the downy head that nuzzles against her chest until, with an amusing snort, he slips back to sleep. And she watches as the woman she loves chases the band of toddlers around the make-shift pitch, lifting their daughter onto her shoulders and kicking the ball up into JoJo's waiting, eager hands.

Sure enough, within fifteen minutes, Tobin has them in two lines, practicing kicking the ball to each other, taking a step back every time they manage a successful pass. And her strong, gentle voice carries across the field, her encouragement almost infectious as the toddlers begin to clap for each other and cheer each other on. Finally, after a good twenty minutes of solid coaching, Christen rejoins the group. "Switch?" she asks, "Noah's fussing for a feed and I think we're about at the end of their focus for the moment. I'll let them run ragged for a bit again and then you can show them how to score?"

But Tobin just smirks, covering the tiny ears of the fussing baby over Christen's chest. "Honey, the children," she teases, but takes Noah back, lifting him out of the carrier into her arms. "We'll be by the stroller if you need us," Tobin blows a kiss as she begins to walk away. But not before Chris closes the distance between them, kissing her wife firmly, soundly, over the baby between them.

"I always need you," she smiles against Tobin's lips. "It's why I married you."

And Tobin just smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> "He Gets that From Me," Reba McEntire


End file.
